


Minus One

by Needs_More_Lesbians



Category: Carmilla - All Media Types
Genre: Alt!Carmilla, Angst, F/F, alt!universe
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2016-10-15
Updated: 2016-10-15
Packaged: 2018-08-22 12:23:11
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: Major Character Death
Chapters: 1
Words: 710
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/8285702
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Needs_More_Lesbians/pseuds/Needs_More_Lesbians
Summary: The situation is disturbingly simple. She is there, and then she is not.





	

**Author's Note:**

> So alternate universe Carmilla FUCKED ME UP. Have this, its short, it's sad, and I'm hoping you enjoy. Happy finale!!!!

The whole situation is disturbingly simple.

She is there, and then she is not.

Beforehand, you were disgusted simply with how intent she was on taking up space. Everything, from the huff of her voice to the posture in her chair was adamant to be noticed. Laura Hollis was a whirlwind, something impossible to ignore, calling school board members and demanding the truth. Even then, even when you’d hated her, you could never imagine her gone.

Until she was.

It wasn’t Kirsh. Kirsh was the definition of a scapegoat, an easy example of mob mentality. He’d been the one to take the fall, when it was your shame, incessant and unflinching, that had caused Laura’s death.

You always were extraordinarily gifted in the art of self destruction.

Her memorial was very quiet, from what you’d heard. You didn’t attend, at least not outside of the few seconds you’d paused outside of the doorway. Her picture was framed in a small glass rectangle alongside a small cluster of violets, smiling unblinkingly into space. The gathering had been small, and you’d recognized faces here and there. Danny, Lafontaine, Perry. But there were faces you didn’t recognize-an older woman, blazer unclasped and falling meekly about her shoulders, continuously clicked her tongue with a few glances at the photograph. She repeated time and time again, in a voice hoarse with loss and age, that Laura might have done very well in her class. Very well indeed.

There’s a man there too, older. His hair has gone grey, brow wrinkled with age the likes of which will never fall upon your skin. His face is hidden in his hands. His sobs are not loud but deep, shoulders heaving occasionaly in their own tempo. You realize with a sickening jolt that it must be her father.

Her father, who she had joked about and mused about. Her father who had only wanted to keep her safe.

Her father who had now buried a child because of your cowardice.

You suppose it is the notion of self-loathing that propels you to return to Maman. She is eerily forgiving. She looks you over with quiet disapproval, lightly brushes cold fingers along your jaw. You want to hate her. You long to be strong enough to.

But you’re a little too tired.

You are silent through the exchange. She comforts you and assures you there had been no other option. That you had done well. That she was so, so proud of her glimmering little Priestess.

You are numb.

She sends you to bed. You return to 307.

You are empty.

Your fingers linger at the wall as you walk to the windowsill, chance a glance outward. Rain has gathered in the autumn season and no stars are to be found. It’s as if even they can no longer bear to look at you.

You are hollow.

You do not cry. You are too tired, even for that. A heavy exhaustion has made of you it’s mistress, has settled about your shoulders like a lover’s arms, coaxing you into a sweet sedation. You take it willingly. Your eyes stare blankly into space.

Laura’s mug is still propped on the counter. She had forgotten to wash it. Hot chocolate has likely coated the bottom like some sahara.

You wonder if she could have loved you. You highly doubt it.

The average population of the world is roughly around 17 million, according to census in Austrian government. The number is rough because people are constantly living, dying, loving, hating, all in an influx of wretched humanity. You used to be so good at detaching yourself from it all. You used to be so good at not caring.

And now here you are, huddled on a windowsill, staring at an empty mug and hating yourself.

The average Styrian population this year was around one thousand.

Minus one.

One thousand, excepting the girl who hurled insults like daggers.

One thousand, excepting the girl who’d been more concerned with changing the world than staying safe.

One thousand, excepting the one who’d thought everybody deserved better. Even you.

One thousand people, living and breakfasting and making love and murdering, and you still can’t bring yourself to think that Laura Hollis is no longer among them.


End file.
